Two things were bothering Hondo Flanks as he ate breakfast with his family in the squat kitchen of his old house.
First, there was the matter of the contract he had taken with the town beautification committee. It had been someone’s idea (the identity of whom was now lost to the fog of iterative meetings) to install stained glass in the old fenestrations of the converted warehouse, to reflect the diversity of outlook in Ponyville, represented by the presence of Gravitationists. Hondo had accepted the project with all pangs of generosity. He believed that the shining of the sun through a stained window would remind the local elder population of the soul’s illumination; and he had, after all, recently made and installed a glazing in his own front door. But there was a pony on the committee, named Raff Wrench, whom he suspected never really liked him, and privately envied his family life; and who suggested that the windows should reflect the doctrines of the Gravitationists, and not just the committee’s charity towards them. The decorative traceries, the fellow had argued, ought to be replaced with more detailed iconography.
“Ellipses in ellipses in ellipses—Hmph!” Hondo grumbled over his morning waffle. “How are you supposed to put something like that in a square window, anyhow?”
Hondo had no use for philosophy. He had assured his wife, Cookie Crumbles, that he was perfectly able to draw the plans, and preferred not to let Raff damper his reputation as an experienced carpenter. But weeks had gone by, and the windows at the warehouse still remained in a prepared state; meanwhile his basement had become of workshop of glass dust and oblong colored shards, resembling to him a pop-up Pondinsky painting.
He had less use for abstraction. And now Sweetie Belle was missing. He could not divide these things, and became deeply irritated by her truancy to the breakfast table. This was his second problem, that there was something about the theater director, Miss Bon, that he had not liked the previous night at his daughter’s show.
The whole thing had been a kickback to her as the only outcome of his frustrated dealings with the beautification committee. It had at least been an opportunity for him to show off the scope of his work to Cookie, with whom he often felt desirous of vindicating himself. That night, as townsfolk and luminaries were gathered together in concentric pews, Cookie and Hondo found themselves on the outermost ring, facing near a wall; for Cookie had felt too uncomfortable in the inner circle, where pillows had been scattered on the floor for desiring audience members. She felt much better, indeed, turned toward a vacant space, than to the chaos in the hall.
Shortly before the lights dimmed, Hondo grabbed her around the shoulder, and made an upward motion toward some window frames covered in plastic.
“Now here, Pet, wouldn’t you say that these frames are quite different than what you would see in the ceremonial halls of Canterlot? Can you spot the difference?”
Cookie fetched a tissue from her purse and began dabbing her forehead. “I never really paid attention,” she said.
“Those windows,” Hondo went on, “have sides which converge at a tip, like a spade. They show that our lives—however humble they may be, down here in muddy Equestria—bend toward some purpose. An ideal setting for stained glass.”
Hondo twirled his moustache and awaited a reply.
“It’s been so long—” Cookie replied at last—“but I’m sure you’re right. My Sunday teacher would have a fit with me for having forgot that.”
“We have to remember as well,” he continued, “that somebody had to build those frames. Get them from paper onto the wall.”
“Oh, naturally.”
“Can you imagine using the same method, the same tools—I’m trying to paint a picture for you, Pet! Imagine being one of those brave craft ponies of bygone days. Setting hoof on one of the great slabs of their foundries, breathing the smell of their soot, as it were. Why, it raises my heart just to think about.”
“Do you have the tickets, Hondo?” Cookie asked. “What time do they say the show it supposed to begin?”
“Eight o’ clock,” Hondo replied.
“And did Sweetie Belle tell us what part she is going to be playing?”
Hondo withdrew his arm. “She’s a clever girl. I’m sure she’ll find us, whatever way she comes out.”
They fell quiet and began to fidget and play with their hooves as the sound of the audience grew to a crescendo. Hondo, however, being still determined to impress his wife by grand gestures of thought, if not the particular fruits of his effort, said in her ear, “If I might add something—picking up our conversation on architecture, that is—in the old days, ponies did not have recreation like we do now. A proper church might have taken years, maybe decades, to be constructed. The only satisfaction of those builder ponies was the longevity of their work, see. There’s something heroic in that, isn’t there, Cookie?”
“Goodness, they weren’t slaves, dear,” she whispered loudly. “My grandfather on my mother’s side was a mason. They had dancing and bars just like we do.”
“They didn’t pray in warehouses, that’s certain. These were ponies of purpose, like I said. Just look at this place.” He directed her to a corner where a tarnished executive writing desk had been placed. “Furniture, probably grabbed from one of the old offices. Empty buckets, just lying around. Pink ponies gamboling on the walls. It’s all very creative, I’ll grant you, but it’s not educational. None of it will stand the test of time. That requires vision.”
“I think you’re being a little harsh, Hondo,” said Cookie.
He went on twirling his large moustache. “With the old builders—as it is with us—nothing was assured of continuation. All that remained from their lives was what was made durable by them—no spooky bric-a-brac. I’m just saying, maybe those ponies knew something about living. Stay with me, Cook. When I go into the workshop I can put my hooves on the same materials as my forbearers. It is as though they reached through the mists of time and said, ‘Here are the tools, Hondo, old boy! All they need is a capable hoof.’ They left these things for us.”
Cookie picked a stray hair off one of his ears. “Thankfully nowadays it’s much easier to pay someone to do it.”
Hondo leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll shut my trap, now,” he said, smiling. “I can tell when you’ve had enough. Let’s you and I grab some ice cream after this thing’s over, eh?”
“Criminy, dear, don’t talk about it that way.”
“Why not?” he japed. “I have nothing but praise when it comes to my little moon pie. She can come with us, if she wants—don’t laugh. It’s all these other mooks I’m not so sure about. I’ll build her a brand new writing desk, if that’s all it takes to get her to go along with us—where does the stage begin, anyway? Have they forgotten us in the waiting room…”
Hondo played it over in his mind at breakfast as he waited for Sweetie Belle, making cuts in his waffle, and setting his mango slices and whipped cream to the side, which he always saved to the end as his favorite part of the meal.
“Well, what didn’t you understand about it?” Rarity was asking her mother on the other side of the kitchen table. “I think it was all perfectly intelligible. Perhaps I can explain. It’s really all straightforward.”
Cookie hesitated first, and then replied in a soft voice, “Don’t you think it was an odd place for a theater production? Don’t forget, that’s a place where ponies worship. We were sitting in pews.”
“It’s not so uncommon,” Rarity replied. “Religious groups often provide spaces for community events. It’s practically their raison d'être. But what did you think of the performance?”
“Believe me, dear,” Cookie went on, “I was part of a dance troupe when I was young, and I know first-hoof that the budget for these kinds of affairs can be tight. But the town convention hall is not that pricey, and it has a stage. You know, where you can see all the actors. It was so confusing having all those young ponies going to and fro through the audience.”
“But Mother,” Rarity stopped her, “wasn’t it refreshing not to have that sense of separation between player and audient which one experiences when one is looking up to a platform?”
“Well… Yes, of course,” said Cookie. “On the other hoof, I sent my daughter away so she could have a chance to perform with experienced ponies. I paid for that—there is already separation between us, as far as I’m concerned! And she only did one thing during the whole show. Not one line, not one note of singing.”
Rarity shrugged. “The performance wasn’t about Sweetie Belle—"
“Now that we can agree on!” Hondo interjected.
“Now, I wish you two would be a little gentler in your critiques,” Rarity said, leering at both of them. “It was an interesting and innovative presentation—more of an installation than a ‘show’, I would conjecture. Something like that requires our active engagement. And besides,” she added, “Sweetie Belle is very proud to have been part of the company of Miss Bon Temps, who may not be famous here—”
“Oh, cruel world!” Hondo cried out in mock plaintiveness.
“Hondo! Stop interrupting her,” said Cookie. She turned and asked, “That’s all fine, dear. But wouldn’t it have been better if Sweetie Belle had sung a nice song under the stage lights? Just one? She has such a lovely voice. Her teachers have always said that. I don’t understand why they didn’t let her sing. Instead, I felt like they wanted to trap me and take my jewelry. It was very odd, Rarity.”
Hondo sighed, and added, “I tried, Cupcake. You know I did. I’m just a guy from Ponyville, after all. I just don’t get all that jazzy stuff.”
“You’re a carpenter,” Rarity replied. “Carpentry is about form, and jazz is about form. You could appreciate that. The form is a reference point, which implies all the times it has been adopted in the past, and suggests the possible developments of the future. A performance like Sweetie Belle’s brings us deep into form.”
Hondo scratched his head. “True. But you need bricks to build with. That’s different. We ponies are made of flesh, too, not just brains. Take it from me, your lowly carpenter. Ponies need something to put their hooves on, to smell, to use for defense. That stuff’s important.”
“I never said I had a problem with carpentry,” said Rarity. “I’m saying that the performance is better when we think about it differently. Think of how the use of the room spoke to the relationship that is encoded between the audience and the players. Or the choice to forego any speaking whatsoever, to reflect the audiences own silence back at itself. We are reminded of the tremendous amount of communication which takes place without words. We went in, looking for entertainment—but all night, all we had were stares, stares, stares! What a statement.”
“I think,” Hondo rejoined, “you and your sister have loose ideas about ‘art’.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Rarity said. “Art is about seeing things fresh.”
“That depends very much on who you’re looking at, Cupcake.”
Hondo and Cookie laughed, and this time Rarity could not resist enjoying her father’s familiar sense of humor.
A breeze wafted in through the screen door, carrying the scents of mud and goldenrod from the river down the hill. As talk in the kitchen lulled, Sweetie Belle emerged from the narrow hallway and ambled up to the breakfast table, stonily, wearing patches of bright red and yellow face paint from the previous night. She was sporting an especially uncombed and unruly mane. She sat down without looking up and gazed at her fruit waffles like she was contemplating a cold morning dip.
“Keep your wits about you, dear,” snarked Hondo, reclining his seat. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say this was part of the show.”
“What time did you get in last night?” asked Rarity.
“Two in the morning, maybe. We all went out to have dinner after the performance, but the troupe was leaving for Rolling Oats this morning, so I had to stay to help them restore the church. When I got home it was hard to sleep, and I kept up listening to records.”
“Silent records?” asked Hondo.
Sweetie Belle stuck her tongue out at him. “Not before I’ve had my coffee, Daddy.”
“Then let’s get you some, right away!” Rarity announced, getting up. “We have so much to talk about.”
She went over to the counter as Cookie said, “I can’t believe how much coffee you drink. Look at the bags under her eyes, Rare. She looked like she was mugged. Twice. Doesn’t she?”
“Don’t be silly!” Rarity replied over her shoulder. “Hers is a face which glows like the sunrise over the dales of Rainbow Falls.” She arrived back at the table with a steaming mug of dark liquid. “There you are, dear. Now you are ready to face the world!”
“Thanks,” said Sweetie Belle. She took a sip, and said, “Well, let’s talk!”
There was a brief silence, which was concluded by Cookie, saying, “I liked it. I thought it was very… intellectual.”
Sweetie Belle folded her legs under her chair, and began to ponder. “Oh yes, the intellect. Obviously. Well, I have to clarify something with you, Mom. A lot of thought does go into Black Box, but it’s not meant to be ‘intellectual’ overall.”
“Oh… I see.”
Sweetie Belle continued, “The ‘intellect’ is a kind of quarantine where you have to tell one thing from another in a very dark place. Black Box is about those mundane things which shine in the sun, like a cairn of snails.”
“Jeez Louise, Cook,” quipped Hondo.
“Oh, well, I’m sorry, dear,” Cookie replied, now flustered. “I thought it was very creative, is all I was trying to say. By the way, have you told your theater director that you can sing? I think that if she were aware of your talent she would consider it a wonderful addition to the show.”
“She knows. I think,” Sweetie Belle said. “It’s come up a few times when I talked to the other players.”
“And?”
Sweetie Belle started to play with her food. “And what?”
“Well, have you shown her? Miss Bon, I mean. Don’t undersell yourself—darling, I don’t know why you act like that. I bet they would love you in Rolling Oats. It’s a music city, remember. I think you should go right up to her and say, ‘I know you’re busy, Miss Bon, but just give me three minutes of your time’.” She turned to Hondo and asked, “What do you think, dear?”
“I think that I couldn’t have put it better myself,” he said.
“It’s not necessary, they don’t need a singer,” Sweetie Belle replied with a bit of temper. There was another break in the conversation—this time no one was eating.
Sweetie Belle took a slow slip from her coffee and said, “Princess Cadance enjoyed it. We talked for a half an hour at the juice bar after the show! She said the performance made her ‘go inside’.”
“Into a hole?” Hondo said, making another quip. He shot a glance at Cookie.
“Hondo! That’s enough out of you,” she said. “Next time you get a waffle in your eye, I promise!”
“Just kiddin’ around,” he said, nudging Sweetie Belle with an elbow. “You know that. Right, Moon Pie?”
She did not answer at first. She looked up and noticed the sun shining through the small kitchen window into the sink filled with dirty plates. She felt eyes on her, from everyone, and answered, “Yeah, yeah. I get it—Black Box is going to be challenging for some ponies. But I’m happy you guys came out and at least made the effort. Especially you,” she said, lobbing a mango slice at Hondo. “I mean, we don’t even tell you when to clap.”
“That’s the line they give you, eh? Ah—I can feel your mother giving me the evil eye, but you’ve had your coffee now. There’s no excuse. Well, I’ll tell you what I really think. I think you’ve got business sense like your sister, here, who has business sense like me. And business requires a strategic outlook. Why, this window project I’m doing for the town, for example. There are some who might look at me and say, ‘What a fool that Hondo is, getting caught up in all that work for so little profit.”
“What a fool you are,” Sweetie Belle parroted him, “getting caught up in all that work for so little profit.”
“Question, Moon Pie,” he asked.
“Answer, Daddy.”
“How do you go from building small windows to building big ones?”
She shrugged.
“By building big windows.”
“I know exactly where this is going,” said Cookie. “Just ignore him, dear. This is all about some petty game he’s playing with that Raff Wrench.”
“Raff Wrench?” said Rarity. “You mean your old roofing partner? Gosh, I don’t think I’ve seen him since Carousel was being built.”
Hondo cleared his throat. “Now, ladies, there are certain names which I humbly request not be mentioned in this household—at least not in my presence—and his happens to be one of them. Wrench is a scoundrel of a pony, a thief, and a deceiver. That I’ll maintain until I’m old and crusty, or until I’m older and crustier than I already am.” He smiled and started twirled his moustache. “In this case, though, he makes a useful analogy for what I’m getting at with you, Moon Pie. This ‘Miss Bon’, to be direct with you—and I know you’ll forgive me—seems to me to be a witch who has had a little white pearl roll into her shop of potions.”
“Miss Bon is hard to get to know,” Sweetie Belle replied. “She’s actually been super kind and supportive to me. And I’m no pearl.”
“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” said Hondo. “This witch has got you so under her hocus pocus that she’s got you thinking you’re lucky to gig with her. Well, I’ve known you for long enough and I’m here to say she should be happy to get you.”
Cookie jumped in. “You must get some kind of school credit is Miss Bon is so well-known.”
“There might be, maybe,” said Sweetie Belle, sighing, as it were, like a wind that diffracts the crisp leaves of autumn.
Cookie said, “Well, goodness! You should ask her, or somebody! Two princesses were at your performance? And one of them loved it? All this opportunity around you, darling! One of my girlfriends was telling me about an exciting charter school in Crystal Empire City—Crystal Clear, it’s called—small classroom sizes, fast-track programs, one of the top-rated boarding schools in Equestria. They have a motto, One is not born a mare—one becomes a mare.”
“That doesn’t mean what you think it means.”
“Well, of course it does!” Cookie replied. “My friend who was telling me about it has a daughter that went there and she’s been able to get lots of individual attention. I can picture you being there, myself. And it’s not a coincidence you bumped into Princess Cadance. I’m sure she could write you a wonderful letter of recommendation.”
“Look,” Hondo broke in, “you liked getting out of Ponyville, right? Well, here you are, Moon Pie. It’s the next step for you. If you were shrewd enough to get two princesses on your side—to stir up a little publicity, if you know what I mean—why not capitalize on it?”
“It’s true, dear, it’s so true,” said Cookie. “Do you think that she would be where she is, if she was willing to pass up the chance to improve her prospects?”
They all turned to Rarity, who, upon being mentioned, felt her mouth go dry. She hadn’t had the chance to explain, in tones that suited her, the secondary purpose of her visit—the long afternoon with Sweetie Belle had been too chaotic.
She therefore, caviling, pushed out her chair a little, and cleared her throat, before answering, “I think we should remember that Sweetie Belle has been feeling a little depressed lately. I was very disturbed to see her that way last time I visited. Now, I admit that experimental theater seems like a strange remedy to all this, and indeed, not quite on-base regarding some of there practical matters you two are bringing up—of which we should of course keep ourselves mindful. However, on your part, you must admit that theater has been much more effective than conventional therapy. I daresay that Sweetie Belle has got her legs under her again! And let’s not forget, it was her initiative to bring Miss Bon’s troupe down to Ponyville to share with us in the first place, and that in my mind is ad valuable a logistical exercise as any.”
Sweetie Belle was fretting her napkin. “I just want it to be clear,” she said, “to all of you, that Princess Cadance did not have an ulterior motive to talk to me. I didn’t invite the princesses to the performance because I wanted to ‘stir up publicity’. They’re friends of ours, just like the Apples.”
“Okay, okay. And do you think that ‘Miss Bon’ would have wanted to go through the hassle of shifting operations to the hometown on an understudy, if there were no promise of tiaras filling the seats?” Hondo said.
“Dad!” Rarity hissed at him.
He grinned behind his moustache at the frowning ladies around his table. “You’re smarter than me, Moon Pie,” he said, “and I’m smarter than that. That’s all I’m saying, here.”
Sweetie Belle had gone back to eating and was looking down at her plate, and another silence passed over the room. “Did you have fun, dear?” asked Cookie.
“Oh—yes, it was a blast!” said Sweetie Belle somewhat uncomfortably. “Would totally do it again, if I had the chance.” She proffered a puffy smile which was reciprocated by all present.
Hondo pushed himself away from the table with a thunderous scrape! and said, “Time’s a-wasting. Moon Pie, maybe you can help me with a little project I’ve got going on. I need someone to draw me some new patterns—you’re an artist, right?—real simple. I’ll even give you the measurements. Since you’ve ‘got legs’ and all.”
Cookie got up to gather plates. “What time do you have to leave, dear?”
“Pretty soon,” Rarity answered. “I’m mostly packed, so it shouldn’t be too much of a headache.”
A triple knock on the front door cut through the commotion of moving plates and chairs.
“Wonder who it could be,” said Hondo, scratching his belly. “I bet it’s wrench, come to apologize to me.”
“You’ve broken your own rule, dear!” Cookie called out as he went to answer it. “You have no right to be upset if one of us makes the same mistake!”
Rarity and Sweetie Belle caught each other’s gaze once they were alone at the table. Rarity inspected the other a moment, to see if she could read something in her face; at which gesture Sweetie Belle replied by sticking out her tongue, who was promptly rejoined in kind by the older, before Hondo returned to the kitchen to break up the scrap.
“Rare, it’s for you,” he said. “What’s her name?”
“Well, I don’t know, Father!” she said. “I have to go see. But who could be calling for me, here?”
She went out and laughed to see Starlight Glimmer waiting in the foyer. She was standing with the thoughtful poise of a runner on the mark, and altogether seemed a little displeased, which Rarity ascribed to the inconvenience of not having known her whereabouts.
“Why, hello there, Starlight!” she said, buoying over. “You’ve found my parents’ house again, you goldilocks. Alas! Who knows what troubles you have endured to find something more to your liking, only to wind up here?”
“I hope this doesn’t come off as an intrusion,” said Starlight. “I know you will only be in town a short while, and I’m sure you’d much rather spend it with them than me.”
Rarity leveled her tone. “Skip it, dear. Would you like to sit down? How do you know about my plans, anyway?”
Starlight peered over her shoulder into the kitchen. “Hmm… Let’s keep this private.”
“Okay. What’s the matter?”
“What exactly went down when you and Sweetie Belle had lunch at Sweet Apple Acres, yesterday?” asked Starlight.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Rarity.
“Word has it that you and Sweetie Belle have a pretty good repertoire of outhouse jokes.”
“Jokes—why—what!?” cried Rarity. “Can we step back for a moment?”
“I bumped into Rainbow Dash this morning at the farmer’s market,” Starlight said. “It was unusual to see her there without Applejack. When we chatted, she said that you made a to-do that you needed to use the bathroom after lunch, then very publicly made clear that an outhouse was beneath your likes.”
“That’s just not true!” Rarity protested. “There was a long repartee in which, among other things, my… erm, lavatory preferences, were discussed in a light-hearted manner. There seemed to be no harm done.”
“You’re aware that’s a perfectly normal arrangement for them, right?”
Rarity blushed at how feeble her excuse now appeared before her interlocutor; yet the real reason for her behavior at the picnic, in her eyes, was still more ridiculous, and not more believable, than the mistruth.
“Look,” she said, “I have a little time before I have to leave. I think this whole thing can be smoothed over. I’ll go to her and apologize and we can all be back on good terms, peaches and cream. I really didn’t mean for things to go like this.”
“It’s not just you,” Starlight said. “Afterward, I heard, Sweetie Belle decided to give a speech of her own. Then, last night, AJ went to bed early because she wasn’t feeling well.”
“Oh, no!” gasped Rarity.
“Yeah. And I guess Rainbow and AJ are at odds about this, too.”
“And?” asked Rarity, now in the full throw of agitation. “Why are they fighting, now?”
“My instinct is that she thinks Applejack was trying to ‘act out’ in front of one of her superior officers. She’s very strong-willed, you know, and I’ve suspected for a long time that she resents being ‘held to rank’ in the military circles Rainbow frequents.”
Rarity began a pace. “Acting out? What does that have to do with anything? We were all acting out! Life is a teacup meant to be drank from—then used to hold biscuits—then arranged into a pretty play with the little dishes and silverware—then.. worn on one’s head!” she said, tugging hard at one of her tresses. She turned to Starlight Glimmer again. “Well, what am I to do, then? You’re the expert, and you’ve come here to see me, obviously. How do I make this right?”
“Simple,” she replied. “You and Sweetie Belle need to go and apologize to her, and describe what you learned in the process of your mistake.”
“Oh… yes…” said Rarity, reflecting. “Well, I haven’t done that in years, but it does seem to have a way of fixing things, doesn’t it?”
“You’d be surprised,” said Starlight. “I trust you can handle that yourself, Rarity. Sweetie Belle… I might need to talk to her. Her grades at the School of Friendship were not very impressive last year.”
“I understand,” said Rarity. “Well, thank you for the telegraph, I suppose. I can go get her if you like—”
“Wait. I also wanted to come to you in person, not because I thought this wouldn’t reach you, and not because Twilight put me up to it or anything of that sort.” Starlight corralled her posture, and said, “Rather, I have come to petition you.”
Rarity scratched her head. “Petition me? Do you need my congressional vote, or what?”
“When one of the students is dealing with a ‘latent issue’”—she put this term in air quotation marks—“I will often initiate a petition to help bring the problem into a state of cognizance. This involves gentle, non-coercive reminders from myself and other ponies that the patient’s—er, student’s—caring circle that an important intra- and inter-personal obstacle is not being addressed, and that it is within the troubled student’s power to correct. The idea is not only to bring the issue to light but also to impart said student with a sense of what I call capacity to act.”
“I see,” said Rarity. “And upon what theme have you come to empower me?”
Starlight pondered the question. “Have you ever kept bees?” she asked.
“Well that’s an odd thing to ask,” said Rarity. “As in, a hive of bees, out in my backyard, with a large protective suit? I can’t recall that I have.”
Starlight nodded. “You’re missing out. It’s a very interesting trade.”
“Is that so.”
“Oh yes. Once you get the hang of it, you can produce all kinds of things in the comfort of your own home. Honey, wax, royal jelly…”
“Royal jelly? I’ve never heard of that,” said Rarity.
“That’s too bad. It’s what the workers feed to feed the queen. If she goes into a slump, the whole hive spirals into a collapse. It’s a totally testable thing.”
“Tragic.”
“Rarity,” Starlight said, giving her a look, “you understand the importance of feeding the queen, don’t you?”
“I’m not sure when and why you became such an expert on beekeeping,” Rarity said, “but who am I to judge. Are you recommending I pick up a new hobby?”
“Hmm, let’s try something different,” Starlight replied. “I want you to close your eyes for a moment.”
“Um… All right,” Rarity said, closing them.”
“I’m going to close mine, too. This is to show that I’m not trying to overpower you. Would you like to open your eyes and check?”
“I trust you with my foals, dear.”
Starlight smiled. “Good, good. I’m glad to hear it. Now, it’s very important that if at any time you feel like you need protection from me, you say so.”
“Got it.”
Starlight let out a long, aspirated breath. “Sometimes, when I’m thinking about a problem—trying to work something out—I find it useful to let the diaphragm relax. Just a gentle release around the ribs and belly. I like to imagine I am painting a little red clown nose on a child’s face.”
Rarity pictured the nose and let her thoughts begin to drift. In the quiet of the foyer, she began to notice noises coming from around the house: she heard the flow of how water and silverware from where her mother and her sister were working; she gelt the creaking of the floorboards in her father’s dusty house, and became sensible to herself and Starlight balancing creakily on top of them.
“We mares,” Starlight continued after letting the silence pass, “tend to be self-conscious about our bellies. But in other cultures the belly is a symbol of wisdom, a sign of our communion with nature and everything that proceeds in us without our knowing. Let’s be in our bellies a moment.”
“Starlight, I—”
Starlight shushed her. “Are you okay, Rarity? Do you need a hug?”
“No, I do not need a hug.”
“Just let me know. Now that we’re relaxed, let’s talk about you. This is your time to sink into yourself and find a way to open, to let loose anything that is stopping you up.”
“Er… How would you like me to do that?” asked Rarity.
“Let’s imagine that you and I, just us, are at opposite ends of a large pond—let’s say, one perhaps four-hundred feet in diameter. The surface of the water is still. It is so still, in fact, that we can see ourselves very clearly, and can look at almost nothing else but our own reflections, until we lift our heads and—lo!—we see each other on opposite shores. Rarity, is that you?” she called out in a low voice.
“Um… H-hello, Starlight?” answered Rarity. “Yes, it’s me! I see you’ve found my favorite pond!”
“Oh, no! The weather is changing!” said Starlight in mock panic. “A cool front is moving in and mist is beginning to settle over the water! I think I can hear you, still, but your image is fading away… Where did you go? Speak to me, Rarity!”
“Oh! Shall I just… walk over and join you?”
“What was that?”
“Do you want me to walk over to you, dear,” Rarity said like she was talking over a din. “It doesn’t seem so very far.”
“No!” cried Starlight. “This is no ordinary mist. I’ve encountered this before, at other ponies’ ponds and at my own pond, too. Do you taste that? It has an acidic flavor… It must be a Haze of Held Resentment! Any step you take toward me could you into a marsh, and tangle you in a fruitless struggle for months or even years.”
“Well we wouldn’t want that!” said Rarity. “Forgive me, I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“We’ll have to cut through this fog using the candidness of our words and our unperturbed feelings of mutual friendship.”
“There could be no other way!”
“It’s a frightening place to be,” said Starlight. “I’ve spent my own time in the Haze of Held Resentment. Strange to say, I grew to almost enjoy the feeling of alienation that came with it. It’s a kind of paradox—after all, it is a way of relating to other ponies, excising them for how one perceives one has been betrayed. It was a while before someone came along and held out a hoof through the fog, and helped me to let go and make sense of my confusion… Take my hoof, Rarity.”
“Oh, my! But aren’t we four-hundred feet apart?”
“I mean actually take my hoof,” Starlight said.
“Oh, okay.”
All the while they had been talking, Rarity and Starlight had their eyes closed as part of their imaginative exercise. Rarity groped the air in front of her until her hoof was caught by Starlight, who took her tightly.
“Ah, there you are!” Rarity said with a laugh. “You know, this is kind of fun.”
“Heh, great! I want you to be in a peak emotional state.”
Starlight took a deep breath before she continued.
“I have it on good authority that some interval has passed since you last enjoyed an intimate companionship.”
“Well that’s ridiculous,” said Rarity. “I have plenty of friends.”
Starlight scratched her chin. “A long time, I mean, since you enjoyed their pleasure.”
“Of laughter? Conversation? Why. I’d be foolish not to. Why not have wine and music to go with dinner, after all—"
Starlight held up a hoof to stop her. “Rarity, Rarity… I’m talking about the last time you saw someone.”
“Saw them…?”
“Saw them.”
“Oh… Oooh. Oh… that’s what you mean.”
“Yeah. Look, we’re all different. I’ve got gray hair coming in. One just has to be humbled sometimes.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I know it can be a little embarrassing, at our age, and especially frustrating when you find yourself surrounded by the joys of marriage—”
“Starlight, may I interrupt you?” Rarity said, opening her eyes.
“What’s up?”
“On the ‘awkward’ scale, this conversation has reached a solid seven.”
“Hey, no judgment here,” Starlight replied hastily, “Maybe you’re a little shy, I don’t know. You’re the oldest, so maybe you didn’t have a model you could use when you were growing up—”
“Starlight.”
She put a hoof on Rarity’s shoulder. “I just want to help you avoid those bitter scenes like the one you let yourself fall into yesterday. As a friend.”
Just then a floorboard creaked nearby, and they turned and spotted Sweetie Belle tiptoeing at the edge of the foyer with a dampened mane that matted against her forehead like a peacock’s gray tailfeathers.
“Ah, there’s the pony I wanted to see!” Starlight said, throwing out a hoof in salutation.
Sweetie Belle offered a meager smile. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Yes, it’s me! Your favorite guidance counselor. Actually… I think I’m your only guidance counselor… Unless you’re seeing someone else behind my back,” she added with mock severity.
“Heh, never gets old,” said Sweetie Belle.
“Helping Mom in the kitchen?”
“Beats playing outside.”
Starlight laughed like a songbird. “Oh, Sweetie Belle, you’re so funny. I’ve always thought that a sharp sense of humor is a sign of great intelligence. What about you?”
She shrugged.
“Hey, your sister and I were just rapping a bit. I’m afraid I have some bad news. You know that picnic that Applejack and Rainbow Dash put together for you, yesterday afternoon? It looks like you might have said a few things which hurt their feelings. I bet you noticed that Applejack wasn’t at your show, last night.”
“Yeah, I did. Is that why?”
Cookie waddled in behind Sweetie Belle as she said, ‘I’m sorry’, to which Starlight replied, “Well, you don’t have to apologize to me, though an apology is absolutely in order. Do you want to talk about what happened?”
All gazes were fixed on Sweetie Belle. “I was trying to be entertaining and got a little carried away,” she answered quietly. “That’s all. I was excited and thinking about the show. I’ll make sure I go see her today.”
Starlight exchanged a glance with Cookie, and, receiving tacit approval, came in closer. “Sweetie Belle, I need to tell you something, but I don’t think you’re going to like it. I want to let you know in advance that the point of my ‘petition’ is not to threaten you or to make you feel embarrassed. I’m glad Mom is here, too. She can support you if I start to make you feel unsafe. Are you ready?”
Sweetie Belle rolled her eyes and made a presidential salute.
“I think you have a hard time being cooperative when it comes to communicating your emotions,” Starlight said. “Maybe that’s why you’ve come to rely on theater tactics. We all want to help you, but we can’t keep waiting for you to come around.”
“Can we not go into this today, right now?” Sweetie Belle pleaded. “We’re talking about cooperation, right? Now, I think your criticism is very fair, Miss Starlight, but I don’t want to focus on the negative. My sister’s here, and I just got through an exhausting performance… I’d like to enjoy the moment, if I can.”
“Oh, for sure, for sure. I’m down with that. By the way—totally stoked that you brought Black Box Theater to Ponyville. Miss On Scene, right? I had a boyfriend back in my hometown who was totally into her. That was more years ago than I care to count!”
She let out another sing-song, far-away laugh.
“But you know, this can be the kind of moment where it is most important to evaluate your emotional landscape. A performance, metaphorically speaking, is where everything significant comes out. Right? It’s what all those awful rehearsals are for. In my field we call it a crucial juncture. I have a game we could play to make this easier. Would you like to hear about it?”
“I don’t think it will help me,” said Sweetie Belle.
Starlight gave her an elbow to cajole her. “Oh, I think it will be fun! Listen. I call it ‘Feelings Tic-tac-toe’. You begin with a nine-square grid just like in ordinary tic-tac-toe, except when you put down an ‘O’ or an ‘X’ you have to include a genuine feeling you have about someone else, a situation, or yourself. However, the rule is—when you make a statement, you must always begin with ‘I think that’ or ‘It is my feeling that’ to be clear that you are talking about what you perceive, and are not trying to ascribe something to someone else. Of course, you can always say something positive!”
“Ooh, what happens if you get three in a row?” asked Cookie.
“You get to ask your opponent for a judgment-free compliment! Normally we don’t give ourselves permission to ask for praise, but it can be very satisfying for both parties. It could be something as simple as, ‘Tell me about something that makes me beautiful’, or, ‘Tell me the most fun memory you have of me’, or whatever seems relevant to your state of mind.”
“That does sound fun!” said Cookie, giving Sweetie Belle another elbow. “Let’s play!”
“Let me rephrase what I said,” Sweetie Belle replied lugubriously. “This sounds really dumb.”
Rarity listened with growing agitation to this discourse, which she believed presaged the difficulty of coaxing a form of apology from Sweetie Belle in the matter of the debacle at Sweet Apple Acres. It was from an appreciation of her sister’s delicate frame of mind that she exercised any reservation in her speech; however, as the hope of the complex and difficult being rendered simple faded with each cutting response made by her, she at last stepped over decorum, and snapped, “Honestly, Sweetie Belle, you’re making this far more miserable than it needs to be. And I agree with Mom and Starlight that you need to learn a little tact. Your depression is no excuse. We are only trying to help you.”
Sweetie Belle, hearing this, laughed for the first time since she had come out of her bedroom for breakfast. “You think I need to learn tact? No offense, sis, but you’re the most over-dramatic pony I know.”
“A fine observation coming from a teenager,” Rarity replied, now incensed. “And by the way, I’ll thank you to leave notes about my personal life out of your little couch sessions. I’m busy, you know. I don’t have all day to spend moping around, like some of us.”
“Great, awesome, this is really fun,” said Sweetie Belle, turning red-faced and averting gazes with Rarity. She squared herself with Starlight, and said, “You know what? Let’s play.”
“We don’t have to if you don’t want to…” Starlight said.
“Put up the board,” Sweetie Belle fired back at her. “Nine squares. You go.”
“Me? Okay…” Starlight made four strokes in the air between them, and contemplated for a moment. Then she made another figure, and said, “’X’—I think you’re unhappy at the School of Friendship.”
Sweetie Belle made her own mark on the board. “’O’—I think you’re trying to corner me.”
Starlight made another cross. “’X’—I think that your family is worried about you.”
“’O’—I think they are just fine.”
“’X’—It is my feeling that you are a good daughter to them.”
“’O’—I think they want me to be more like Rarity.”
“’X’—I think that you are confused.”
“’O’—I’m a fuck up.”
Cooke gasped. “Sweetie Belle! Watch your mouth, for goodness’ sake. And what you said about Rarity is not true at all—”
Starlight stopped her. “Let’s give it a little air, Mrs. Flank-Crumbles. Sweetie, honey—I know we’re tapping into strong emotions here, but let’s try and remember the most important rule of Feelings Tic-tac-toe.”
Sweetie Belle groaned like a bowed door hinge. “It is my feeling that I am a fuck up.”
“That’s better,” Starlight said. “Now, that gives me the last move. ‘X’—I’m glad that we can be friends. Well, it looks like I win! As per our rules, I am allowed to ask you for a judgment free compliment. Let’s see… What would you miss about me if I went away on a six-month mountain climbing expedition?”
“Your breath,” Sweetie Belle answered with ease. “You always have fruity bubblegum breath which reminds me of my time in counseling. I might always wish to be somewhere else, but I can always count on your excellent taste in gum.”
“I see. Well… Thank you, Sweetie Belle. I acknowledge and accept your compliment.”
“You’ve had your say, Miss Starlight,” Cookie interceded, “and now I’d like to have mine. Darling, sometimes we have to give in to each other to make good relationships. I do it with your father all the time. And we’ve gone through all of the trouble of helping you get to Rolling Oats. It is not always pleasant, but it is something you simply need to learn to do, if you’re going to get the success you want.”
“Just look at Rarity,” Starlight said, attempting to make eye contact with her. “Even when she thinks a client is boorish or underserving she still has to entertain a negotiation of price and service with them, because she knows it will be of long-term benefit to her enterprise. And like Mom says, it’s true with friends and family, too.”
“Oh, yes, it’s so true!” said Cookie. “I always consider it a point to make holiday appearances at Winsome Weathervane’s get-togethers, even though I don’t know most of her friends and never really enjoy myself, to be frank. But I can’t complain about Winsome. She’s quiet and is always willing to lend us her tools when we need them.”
Quiet crept in and the four mares stood breathing and looking at the floor and past one another into the corners of the old river house.
“I’m going to go take a nap,” said Sweetie Belle. “Look, just ignore me. I’m tired still. It was a long night—a long day. Thanks for coming to see me, Miss Starlight. It was really considerate of you to go out of your way to make sure that I’m okay. I promise I’ll talk to Applejack. We’ll have to continue this at another time—”
“Oh, anytime!” roared Starlight. “If you need me, you know where to find me.”
She turned to go. Then Cookie called after her, “Aren’t you going to say goodbye to your sister? She’s going to be leaving soon, too.” Sweetie Belle said goodbye from down the hallway, and they heard her bedroom door click shut.
“I hope I was of use today,” said Starlight.
“Oh, of course, of course,” said Cookie. “You are always welcome here. Did you want to get Hondo in on this?”
“Oh, no, no. Maybe some other time. I’ve got to get going—we’ve all got places to be, I’m sure. Just one more thing, though.”
She waved for Cookie and Rarity to come near. They took a few steps and were girdled into an embrace by Starlight, who declared, in a minty voice, “I love you guys!” Whereupon, she made a shallow courtesy, and departed.
“You’ve met before, right?” Rarity asked.
“Oh, sure, two or three times, I think.”
Rarity glanced in the direction of the hall. “Mother, I’m going to go check on Sweetie Belle before I go.”
“She’s probably sleeping,” Cookie replied. “She did look exhausted this morning, didn’t she? Are you sure you want to poke that bee’s nest?”
Rarity nodded. “If she’s asleep, I shall quietly tiptoe away, I promise.”
The door was not locked. When Rarity peeked inside, she found that Sweetie Belle was not in bed but was rather seated at a rickety turquoise vanity making brushstrokes through her mussed hair. The brush would not go through easily, and gave out a harsh rip! with each attempt, always attended with the soft imprecations of its owner.
Rarity did not announce herself but entered quietly. She recognized a few of her old belongings which had stayed with the bedroom: the old queen bed by the window, with its tall posts and elaborate purfling; a few old trunks and a small wooden bookshelf; and her old armario, which had gone into disuse. Sweetie Belle, for her part, had added a phonograph, and the oddly colored vanity. On the bookshelf display was Rarity’s childhood collection of button-sewn stuffed dolls, which presided in a gladdened slump over dappled school textbooks and a slosh of earmarked volumes of poetry and a few slim philosophy readers on the shelves below. Among the poetry, the most careworn books were Amethyst Remembrance by Feathered Thing and The Belle Jar by Silver Platter, the latter a library book tagged many months past due.
Everything seemed sparse from the way she remembered it. The room had become a lake of swollen floorboards with nothing by a throw rug and a few jettisoned accessories to cover it. Rarity sidled in and took a bed, as her sister continued to toil with her hair.
“I just wanted to see how you were doing,” she said. “And to say goodbye. Back there… The context was a little strange, wouldn’t you agree?”
Sweetie Belle went to speak, but stopped herself. She set down the brush and watched herself in the mirror.
“Is there something you’d like to talk about?” asked Rarity.
“I don’t want to talk.”
“Can I talk to you, then? You won’t have to say a word.”
Sweetie Belle was silent again.
“I had another reason for coming to Ponyville,” Rarity began, “something I needed to talk about with the family, though it looks like I won’t get that chance to do that before I go. So I want to tell you, because I trust you most of all, anyway, and it’s something you should hear from me. I’m going to be leaving Manehattan. I’m going to sell the boutique, there. I had a nervous breakdown, Sweetie Belle. A client came in, screaming at me because his daughter hated the dress that I made for her debut—something took hold of me in that moment, it all built up, and I locked myself in the back and pulled my hair. I still pull my hair—you see? I hate it, the idea of establishing myself in Canterlot, up the hill, of disappointing you and Mom and Dad who imagine how far I am going, but that’s what I am doing. And I feel utterly loathsome for how much pressure that put on you. I feel inferior. Hoh! Sorry, sorry. I am being dramatic again.”
She paused to let herself catch a breath. Sweetie Belle, who, with respect to her emotional life, was something like a rough inmate, equally was as affectionate as a child when pressed—just the reverse of her older sister. So that, when the latter had finished her confession, the former was already rubbing tears from her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Rarity,” she said. “I’m sorry that’s how it is for you.”
“Oh… Sweetie Belle, you know I’ll be okay. I didn’t mean to concern you. It’s just drama, like you said. There’s nothing behind it.”
She waited for Sweetie Belle to speak; but she only sniffled and gazed in the vanity mirror without reply. They sat together as the sound of boots and old floorboards attacked the silence.
“I’m sorry for how it is for you, too,” said Rarity.
“The worst I have to deal with is a clueless guidance counselor. She said I use ‘theater tactics’ because I have trouble communicating. What an idiot! And then she pretends that she’s excited about Black Box Theater, like she knows what that is.”
“I rather agree with her, dear.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Rarity explained, “that you do have trouble communicating. It is so hard to communicate. And that’s precisely why we need the theater. Only, not all of us have the same sensitivity to recognize this need. Not everyone appreciates the house they live in, the whole miracle of it, until they are without one. To go deep, to face the complexities of your vessel and your personality and your soul, then to represent that difficult solitude with the utmost generosity toward your fellow pony, that they may benefit and share in the experience, is the essence of your art.”
Sweetie Belle picked up the brush again. “Hey, Rarity… Do you mind…?”
“Of course,” she said, hopping up and getting over to her sister’s seat. She gathered a swath of Sweetie Belle’s hair in one hoof and grabbed some hair pins with the other. “Are you angry that everyone is pressuring you to go to Crystal Clear?” Rarity asked as she began tugging and pulling.
“I don’t know,” Sweetie Belle said, bobbing. “I’m not happy at the School of Friendship, I guess. I like the ponies there—even Miss Starlight, when she’s not so wound up—but I feel like maybe I don’t belong there anymore, and it scares me a little.”
“How do you know you don’t belong there?” asked Rarity.
“You heard what Mom was saying earlier. Ponies are disappointed that I don’t like to sing as much as I used to. And when they talk like that it feels like the earth is going out from under my hooves.”
“Oh, to have a coat like this again!” Rarity said, brushing off her sister’s forehead. She put the clips in the side of her mouth and went to work like a bivouac surgeon. “Well, don’t you?” she mumbled. “Enjoy singing, still, I mean.”
Sweetie Belle was pensive; Rarity hummed a low melody to herself as she became absorbed in the weight and contour of flowing, fuzzy hair. Then her sister continued, “When I first started singing for other ponies, it made me happy that I could do something that I loved to do and show love to the community at the same time. Things seemed simpler. The more I nurtured myself, the more others seemed to be nurtured by me.”
“Mhm.”
“Then one winter I got bad streptococcus. You remember that. I was bed-ridden for days, and my voice still really isn’t the same. I was surprised to find myself getting jealous of other fillies getting parts that I couldn’t. Singing just made me depressed. All the ‘self-improvement’ stuff which I believed in just seemed like bullshit—excuse my language. If I’m still mean on the inside, then the whole thing is a lie, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know, dear,” Rarity said as she preened the hairline by Sweetie Belle’s ears. “I think I understand what you are asking—but that is something which you have to decide for yourself. Though it sounds to me as though you are not entirely sure, yourself.”
“Well, I stopped ‘nurturing’ myself, in any case.”
“That’s terrible.”
Sweetie Belle was quiet again. “I want to sing—to go back to that old, simple feeling. There’s something about theater that I feel I can pour myself into, in the same way. I knew that if I just got to Rolling Oats that things would be better, and I would find some kind of direction away from feeling stuck. I still feel it might be true, but now…”
“Now, what?” asked Rarity, stopping her work.
“Nothing. It’s dumb.”
Rarity harrumphed as she teased out the top of Sweetie Belle’s mane. “It’s not dumb—whatever it is—and I don’t think you’re dumb, and I’m here to support you, because that’s what sisters are for.”
Sweetie Belle sighed. “Look, in order to change, you have to give something up. And as much I feel pulled toward Rolling Oats, I feel like I have to turn my back on Ponyville. You see how Miss Starlight comes up with little games to try and make us closer. Ponyville has become a game to me, like that. That’s what it’s come to. It just makes me feel far away. And if I told Miss Starlight or anyone what I’m really feeling, it would be like stabbing them. Same with Mom and Dad.”
Rarity nodded. “Are you sure they would feel that way if you told them about it?”
“I’m afraid to test it,” Sweetie Belle replied.
“I understand. That is a very hard place to be…” Then: “And what about us? Do I make you feel ‘far away’?”
The sound of hoof steps invaded the room again.
“I’m sorry for being snippy out there with Starlight and Mom,” Sweetie Belle said. “The past few days have been a lot to take in. What time do you have to go, again? I don’t want to make you miss the train, on top of everything else.”
“I’ll catch the next one. Be honest with me.”
Sweetie Belle squirmed like a butterfly under a needle. “If you really insist… Yes, you do.”
The humming and breathing behind her stopped, but Sweetie Belle could feel her sister still working. She had transformed into firm touches in the stillness now between them, caressing with her long strokes, bone on bone through the medium of frizzy locks being ever coaxed toward presentability. Sweetie Belle looked up and saw in the mirror what her sister had done while they were talking: her long hair had been combed into locks and woven into a bun plait held by an indigo barrette. The shape of the resulting coiffure was a simple, centered figure, with bangs that kept out of the eyes and cheeks. The pink and amethyst parts of her mane were evenly partitioned to bring out an attractive dualism.
“I look like a damn intellectual!” Sweetie Belle cried out in surprise. She and Rarity burst into giggles.
“You look so comely!” Rarity said between her laughter. “It’s very practical, you see… Well, I was going for ‘young artist’, but that will do!”
A smile overcame Sweetie Belle as they calmed down. “I love it. You’re a genius. In the perfect business.”
“Oh, stop.”
“I mean it, though” she said, trembling and turning to face Rarity. “When you left it was like there was a vacuum in my life. I was used to having someone who I could share everything with, and who I could go to with anything that I needed to talk about. But things have changed. You’ve been away and I want to leave. There’s a part of me that’s overwhelmed by Rolling Oats and its musk and promises and the prospect of throwing all this way, every last fruit waffle and picnic, because I miss you terribly, not just because you live somewhere else but because I have to go on without you. And there’s another part of me that wants to scream that you don’t have to ‘network’ with me, that I’m right here and we’re all caught up playing some imaginary, silly game.”
A glow of afternoon sunlight came in and made a spot on the floor between Rarity and Sweetie Belle and the bed which faced the window and the pine tree line outside. In the silence Rarity found herself wondering once more about what was beyond those trees, as she had done from an early age, looking up through the square window as she waited to get out of bed on a lazy day; it seemed to her then, as now, that the dark trees towered over the world, and was the only feature of the room which hadn’t lapsed with time.
Sweetie Belle curled into her sister and pressed her face into the crevice of her neck. Rarity held her tightly for a while, without speaking; then she said, “Listen, Sweetie Belle. Go out into the world. Chase those musky promises. Fall in love. Make a fool of yourself. Make big mistakes—you hear me? Live your life and everything that goes with it. Break hearts. Get your own heart broken. Live on a dime, if you have to. That’s all I have to impart—I just love you, okay?”
They let go. Sweetie Belle let out a laugh in a wave of relief and exhaustion. She went to say something but stopped and allowed the silence to come in again, but a different kind of silence. Even the hoof steps and the chattering birds out the window did not disturb it; rather, their song seemed to coalesce around it, the way beads of sweat form on a hot glass pitcher filled with fresh, cold water.